Worse than Nicotine
by TheOtherHalfBloodPrince
Summary: Sherlock Holmes simply cannot live without something to stimulate his brain. All his life he has been searching for something to do the job, and then he found what can successfully complete this task. But what Sherlock found is worse that nicotine.


addiction [_uh_-**dik**-sh_uh_-n]: _noun _The state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, such as narcotics, to such an extent that cessation causes severe trauma.

An addiction is not something you find one day and put it down the next just as easily as it was picked up. No, it's not that easy to rid yourself of something like that. It's something that sticks with you until the end of your days. Though it might lessen and push itself to the back of your subconscious, it will always be right there, waiting for its chance to break free and envelop you once again.

Sherlock Holmes is much more familiar than he'd like to be with that word. Or can one even call it a word? It's more like a state of being, he supposes.

Addiction has been a part of Sherlock's life for as long as he can remember. There's never once been a time when he hasn't felt himself wrapped its bittersweet embrace.

It started small, so small that one wouldn't classify it as an addiction until they have seen what it led to. Knowledge -or rather, the undying thirst for it- was the beginning.

Sherlock was young when he first felt its kiss on his lips, drawing him in further and further, until there was no way to get back out again.

The desire for knowledge had been present inside of Sherlock ever since he was a boy. He couldn't stop himself from drinking it in. The more he knew, the more he needed to learn.

Knowledge was his only companion, and it was by far the best one. Knowledge never turned its back on Sherlock like the other children did. Knowledge never called him a freak, nor did it ridicule him. It welcomed Sherlock with open arms, providing him with immense satisfaction.

Sherlock's vast arsenal of everything he learned swirled around his mind, which soon became his best friend. He could retreat into his mind and feel nothing but a pure, overwhelming sense of joy; it far exceeded the limits of the ever-so-boring world he found himself mercilessly trapped inside.

As time progressed, Sherlock discovered why he was so different from other people -and why he isolated himself from them. He no longer found them interesting, if he ever did. He was just so much _smarter _than they were; they could neither stimulate his mind nor keep up with him.

But there came a time when knowledge was no longer enough for Sherlock. No matter how much he obtained, there was always an empty space, craving something more, something stronger.

That was when he tried the cigarettes. Originally, it was nothing more than a harmless experiment. It surely wasn't anything that could harm him.

He had seen people smoking, and wanted to try it for himself, wanted to see what it felt like. Not long after the first inhale and exhale of the smoke, Sherlock once again found himself wanting more. He was mesmerized by the enchanting, curled tendrils of grey smoke that rose up and danced through the air.

He thoroughly enjoyed the way it made him feel. It soothed him. It perfectly relaxed every muscle in his body, giving him another way to connect with that wonderful mind of his. It was pure. Sherlock could now spend hours, even days, doing nothing but delving into the sanctum of the innermost depths of his mind.

His horribly intrusive brother began to worry; Sherlock would go days without eating or sleeping, and Mycroft had been convinced that the only reason his brother was breathing was that if he didn't, he would be torn away from his mind.

So, Sherlock would force himself into reality to eat and sleep from time to time. His family was not pleased, but they were no longer worried, which gave Sherlock more time to spend inside of his head.

Although brief, Sherlock loved the euphoric feelings that encompassed his being. The pounding of his heart could be felt in every single inch of his body.

Then, the headaches started, and a dull hum rang in his ears, locking him out of his mind. He no longer wanted the nicotine, but it was too late. Sherlock needed something new, something to distract him from the nicotine.

But what Sherlock found was worse than nicotine.

He decided to utilize the powerful tool his mind had evolved into to his benefit. He found puzzles, and puzzles were never boring. They were always new, always different from the last one he completed (successfully, of course).

Sherlock has not yet found a way to escape from solving those puzzles. They fascinate him. Sherlock has finally found the one thing that does not bore him. There are an infinite number of puzzles to solve.

Murders are his favorite. The complex process of unraveling what factors could drive someone to kill another person from the useless information is stimulating.

Sherlock finds himself completely engrossed in whichever case he is currently working, unable to break free until he has solved the puzzle. Then, the cycle begins again when a new case is presented.

Sherlock has slipped into his old habits of disregarding the need for sleep and sustenance when a case is particularly difficult. If John weren't so paranoid about his well-being, Sherlock would have surely starved.

He has abandoned the cigarettes by replacing them with nicotine patches. They allow him to feel that special connection with his mind the same way the drugs did, when the quantities are increased beyond what has been deemed "safe", of course.

Long ago, Sherlock grew emotionally attached to his work. He has been dragged down into the depths, and he truly enjoys it, but sometimes it's too much.

He's lost control of himself, but Sherlock doesn't want it back anymore. His mind has assumed command of his actions. There's no way to rid himself of its regime, so he succumbed to its orders.

Sherlock's love for puzzles increases substantially as time passes, and he can't seem to get enough. The need for mental challenges consumes his every thought.

An inordinate amount of cases that Sherlock is presented with are too simple. He can solve them in mere minutes, sometimes less.

But the worst is that horrible gap between cases. Sherlock isn't sure what to do with himself. He _needs _puzzles. He needs people to deduce, and not just ordinary people, either. No, he needs the complicated ones. He needs the ones with emotions layered on top of secrets.

Sherlock found something; he's found stimulation, but it comes with a price, as does everything worthwhile. This addiction has consumed him.

It's worse than the undying thirst for knowledge, and it's worse than nicotine.

**Thanks for reading! I hope you like this story. It is inspired by the song "Nicotine" by Panic! at the Disco. Be sure to check out my other _Sherlock _fic, _The Hardest Part of this Is Leaving You_, and my _Supernatural _fic, _Occupational Hazards. _**

**Please leave me a review. I love to get feedback from my readers; it will help me write more stories. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Sherlock _or any of its characters... yet.**


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